


Hey, it's Peter, can I stay at your place?

by dontlookatmeimembarrassed (orphan_account)



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Sleepovers, Wade needs a hug and he gets it, but not romantically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:27:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28551597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/dontlookatmeimembarrassed
Summary: Peter comes home to find that he’s been evicted. MJ is busy with work, Harry is in Paris, probably, and he doesn’t want to bother aunt May.That only leaves him with one option: that mercenary he keeps meeting during his nightly patrols.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Comments: 9
Kudos: 293





	Hey, it's Peter, can I stay at your place?

**Author's Note:**

> i've been playing spider-man on the ps4 the entire week and when (spoilers) he got evicted i thought...... but what if Deadpool......... cue this. I guess it's set in the game, but this time with Deadpool. might make another chapter, we'll see

It’s nearly 2 am and Peter is so tired his hands shake. He hasn’t slept properly in four days, if not more, and the lack of sleep is finally getting to him. The exhaustion clouds his spider-senses and dampens his reaction time; wounds from bullets that have grazed his skin ache with each movement.

Manhattan looks like a blur of yellow lights from where he’s standing on another nameless skyscraper in the financial district. He doesn’t know whether he hallucinates the smell of the sea or not.

Deadpool sits in front of him with his legs dangling over the edge and fingers curled around something bright pink in his lap.

“Hey” Peter contemplates whether dude would be too informal, “man”

If Peter wasn’t so tired he’d hit himself.

“What’s up, baby-boy?” Deadpool perks up and Peter sees that he’s folding a tiny paper crane.

“Stop calling me that,” he reminds for the seventieth time, “I have a favor to ask”

“You don’t need to ask, baby-boy, your wish is my request- Wait that’s not how it goes. Your wish is my- How have I forgot this? You think seeing Aladdin nineteen times would mean this is a given, apparently not. What I’m trying to say is that there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, except maybe crawl on my hands and knees to Tibet, no actually, I would do that. I hope that’s now what you’re asking me for though”

Peter braces a hand against his forehead as if it will somehow hinder the oncoming headache.

He nearly tells Deadpool about how he found half of his furniture on the street and the other half in some dumpster when he came home or how he found a yellow, little eviction note taped to his front door. But he doesn’t want Deadpool’s pity, doesn’t want Deadpool to feel forced to take him in.

“Can I sleep at your place? I’m in a… weird spot right now” he settles on instead.

Deadpool stops folding.

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“Yes?“

Deadpool stands up and the paper crane cascades down the skyscraper’s side as he lunges to grab Peter’s hand. The metaphorical sparkles in his eyes are bright enough to be spotted through the mask.

“Are you asking me to have a sleepover with you?”

Before Peter can reply Deadpool drops his hand and squeals.

“Am I really going to have a sleepover with Spider-Man? The Spider-Man? Friendly neighborhood Spider-Man? We can take turns braiding each other’s hair, spoilers, it’ll be your turn every turn. We can talk about boys, like have you seen Daredevil’s new suit? It really does his pectorals justice”

Peter feels that he’s lost the red thread of their conversation, although he has to admit that most conversations with Deadpool felt like that, jumping between several threads.

“N-“ he begins.

“Or maybe…” Deadpool puts his hands to his face in a scandalized manner and now Peter really feels as though he’s lost the plot, “You're looking for something else entirely. Something else entirely being sex; me, you, maybe a friend of yours?”

Peter sighs, a mixture of exhaustion and blooming annoyance.

“No. I’m only looking for somewhere to sleep. There will be no sleepover, no braiding, and no sex… in any way, with anyone”

Deadpool pouts.

“Not even a blowjob?”

Peter blinks slowly, “No”

“A handjob?” It almost sounds like a whine.

“No”

“Some light fingering?”

Peter tilts his head up in defeat and hopes to find strength in the position of the stars and planets. Light pollution tells him to deal with his issues by himself.

He’s beginning to doubt that sleeping at Deadpool’s place is better than sleeping on some rooftop. Sure, Deadpool’s apartment might be warm and dry and soft and no tenants will wake him up by pouring water on him, but the chance of Deadpool being there is 100 percent.

“I’m not hearing a n-“

Peter brings his head down to pointedly look at the man. “No.”

Deadpool sighs with his entire body.

“Here I am, inviting you to my home and I can’t even get an itsy bitsy bit of spidey-dick” the sadness doesn’t last long as he immediately perks up with a grin, “See what I did there?”

Peter crosses his arms, refusing to acknowledge the horrible degradation of such a sacred nursery rhyme. Once again he considers curling up on a roof.

“You look skeptical” Deadpool comments, breaching a new subject, “I assure you I clean my lair once a week… once a month… at least once every half year”

Peter raises a skeptical brow. He doesn’t feel assured.

Somehow he follows Deadpool home and it turns out the mercenary’s apartment is not as bad as one is led to believe. It looks to be in the same state as Peter’s apartment before he got evicted. Although there are more alcoholic beverages and empty Lays bags lying around.

Deadpool kicks some green, glass bottles to the side. They roll across the discolored hardwood floor.

“Home, sweet home” He sighs dreamily, “want me to give you a tour of the palace?”

“That’s not nece-“

“There’s the kitchen” Deadpool points to what probably used to be white floor tiles, a kitchen island, and relatively clean but slightly off the hinges cupboards, “Feel free to take anything” - he pauses as his finger hovers on some plastic jars in orange, medicines probably, - “except those, they’re a fortune”

Deadpool walks further in and Peter trails behind, observing everything over the other man’s shoulder. The walls are made of bricks and mostly bare save the occasional poster of some old spaghetti western or a stock image of a tropical beach during sunset.

“This is my living room” Deadpool gestures widely with both arms to the room they’re standing in. They stand on a round, red rug with withered corners that probably has seen better days. A tattered leather sofa lined against a wall and opposite it a matching loveseat in equally tattered condition. Balanced on top of a plastic children’s table that Deadpool picked up by the dumpster outside a kindergarten stands a TV and another on the floor, broken, behind it. Several women’s underwear magazines and recipes ripped from other magazines lie about and Peter spots small clouds of grey dust along the walls. A floor lamp with a creamy lace shade, early 1930s style, stands tall in the corner beside the couch and the naked lightbulb hanging from the ceiling in a single cable sheds a bit of light on them.

“What’s with all the remotes?” Peter asks. He nods towards the heap of TV-remotes collected in the loveseat.

“You get more channels that way,” Deadpool says and Peter suspects that isn’t true, “anyway, the main attraction…”

Deadpool begins walking with his back towards a door with peeling color and stretches his arms out as though it were the final act of a dramatic ballet. It’s the bedroom, Peter knows Deadpool well enough to know he’s referring to the bedroom.

“The bedroom” Deadpool doesn’t need to press the handle for the door to open, it’s enough for him to push up against it with a shoulder, “this is where the magic happens”

Unlike the living room and kitchen, there seem to be zero functional lamps in the room. Once Peter’s eyes adjust to the dark he makes out a single mattress on the floor dressed in a king-sized sheet, a fan, and a half-deflated blowup doll. Peter hopes it’s for a gag.

“Not enough magic it seems” Peter hints at the doll.

“She is the magic”

Peter grimaces, “Spare me the details”

“You can create your own details if you’d like” Peter is pretty sure Deadpool is wiggling his eyebrows under the mask.

“Very nice of you, but I’ll pass”

“Your loss. Barbra is one of the best”

“I’m going to walk to the couch now and pretend you haven’t named your sex doll”

“I thought we were gonna share the bed” Deadpool pouts.

“I’ll have to decline, I’m sure Barbra will take you up on the offer though,” Peter says quickly and escapes the room. The door falls closed with a click. He’s about two blinks away from falling asleep.

“I’m scared of the dark y’know? Need a big, strong, masculine Spider-Man to care for little ol’ me!” Deadpool shouts on the other side and Peter is too tired to properly respond, all he can muster is a half-quiet “too bad”.

At this point, every muscle in Peter’s body is crying. Deadpool’s couch calls out to the exhaustion embedded in his bones like a sofa-shaped siren in wine-red Tyrrhenian waters. He sinks into the lull that is a beaten cushion with a sigh. It smells a bit funny, but right now it could smell like the Hudson River and he wouldn’t bat an eye.

He begins to strip out of his suit and accidentally kicks some magazines with ladies in too small bikini tops off the TV-table in the process. He throws the cloth to the floor.

A low wolf whistle to his right causes him to jerk his head up and he’s suddenly assaulted by two blankets and a t-shirt, thrown in his face. He pulls away the blanket that landed over his head and sees Deadpool, still in his trademark black and red suit, just as he collapses into the loveseat. He brushes all remotes to the floor and they clatter loudly as they land, at least five batteries pop out from diverse devices.

“If this “super-hero” thing doesn’t work out for you I have another suggestion,” he says low in his throat and makes a show of eyeing Peter’s bare body.

“I’m not prostituting myself” Peter only rolls his eyes. He picks up the shirt and notices with slight disdain the faded Sharknado image printed on the front.

“Woah there, cowboy” he hears Deadpool half-laugh as he tugs on the shirt, “You said that, not me. I was thinking along the lines of a Playboy model, although I’m not against the suggestion. How much would you charge for spending your entire life with me?”

“I think I’m quite lacking in the right department for that” Peter gestures to his flat chest, “and I wouldn’t even offer my services to you”

“Nobody would notice when you have an ass like that. They say rich men prefer small tits anyway” Deadpool winks, “but you could always get silicone if you’re so insecure about it”

Peter can’t help the snort he lets out. It’s not funny, he argues, he’s just tired.

“Still” he yawns, “I think I prefer the whole super-hero thing, or vigilante as I’ve been branded”

“Better than menace”

“I see you listen to Jonah as well”

“Wouldn’t miss him for anything” Deadpool gives him a sultry look, “except, perhaps, for some spidey-ass”

“Ha-ha, go to bed”

“As you wish, but spidey-ass was funny,” Deadpool says as he gets up from his seat.

“Almost as funny as spidey-dick,” Peter says sarcastically, “it’s just a regular body part you know, no need to put anything in front of it”

“Makes it feistier though, reminds me that it’s yours”

“Good night,” Peter says, lacking a good comeback and instead emphasizes the end of their conversation.

He stretches out on the couch, it’s a bit small so his feet end propped up on the armrest. Two blankets prove too hot New York City’s august heat-wave so he settles for one and finally, finally, he can drift undisturbed into sleep.

Peter doesn’t know when he wakes up but judging by the lack of sunlight in the windows he guesses it’s still night. It’s the blurry sound of creaking floorboards that forces him into consciousness.

Instinctively he pulls the blanket over his nose to cover his face somewhat. His mask lies discarded on the floor, just out of reach. It’s difficult to breathe in and becomes sweaty to the point of drenched so he never makes a habit of sleeping in it, which is kind of stupid, he realizes now.

A tall figure stands outside the kitchen, only a dark silhouette against the white and blue cupboards. Peter relaxes as he recognizes the curve of the broad shoulders.

“Can’t sleep either, huh?” He asks.

Deadpool turns around, startled by the noise, and Peter catches a glimpse of his face. It’s marred by thick scars and open wounds and seems almost shapeless in the distorted street light that shines through the windows. Deadpool finds Peter’s eyes and quickly turns back, slipping into the shadows the corners casts. Even the darkness falls uneven on his marred cheek.

Terrifying is Peter’s first impression of Deadpool’s face beneath the mask, blood-chilling and adrenaline spiking, he suddenly feels wide awake. He doesn’t know what he had expected but it wasn’t this. He softens after the initial shock and reminds himself that he has his fair share of unpleasant scars, that they’re kind of hard to avoid in their line of work. Appearance is a hard thing to dissect, harder to control and it’s not a base for judgment.

“No” Deadpool’s voice sounds different, estranged, and tense, and it’s hard to make out what he says when he’s not facing Peter.

As Peter’s eyes adjust to the dark he sees that the wounds continue down Deadpool’s neck and back. His body is instances of torn skin held together by God knows what.

For the first time, it’s entirely silent between them and it makes Peter feel weird, in an anxious, unrelated to spidey-senses, way. Usually, Deadpool won’t stop talking unless his mouth is webbed shut, it’s a constant flow of quips, unrelated observations, or innuendos so obvious they barely qualify to be called that. It’s never been quiet like it is now, Deadpool fills any silence with his croaky renditions of ABBA or an argument with the boxes, as he introduced them to Peter, in his head. The tension lies like a sleeping animal between them, with ragged corners and sharp teeth.

Peter slowly sits up and lingers on the edge of the couch.

“Came to get a sneak peek of the Amazing Spider-Man's identity?” He tries half-heartedly.

Deadpool doesn’t say anything.

“I hope I didn’t disappoint you” he tries again and when Deadpool remains quiet he stands up. Deadpool flinches when Peter approaches. Both feel overwhelmed by the urge to leap from one of the windows, half-naked. Both have half a mind not to.

“I’m Peter Parker”

Deadpool doesn’t even turn to face the hand Peter has offered.

“I mean…” Peter pulls his hand back to rub his neck uneasily, “you’ve already seen my face and I’ve seen yours. No point in hiding who you are now”— maybe he rushed it a bit —“you don’t have to say your name if you don’t want to”

“It’s not that” Deadpool musters through gritted teeth, “I don’t give a fuck if you know my identity, it’s just my face”

Peter, always inapt to keep tact in uncomfortable situations, considers cracking another joke (“Are you wanted by the police or something?”) but stops himself before he can open his mouth. He swallows thickly.

“I- I won’t tell anyone, I swear” Peter hates the way his voice raises in pitch.

Deadpool finally turns around and Peter has never seen him angry before.

“Are you playing dumb? Are you fucking with me?” Deadpool hisses at him and the scars above his eyes warp and twitch, “Are you happy? I showed you my face, are you fucking happy now? Probably not because fucking look at me”

Peter scrambles for something to say, “I- I don’t-“

“Fuck off” For a split second Peter thinks Deadpool is going to do something, hit or shove him, but he only sinks back, shoulders deflated.

“I just… I wanted you to like me is all” he confesses. He won’t meet Peter’s eyes and then it’s as though the anger bubbles back because he begins to pull at his face, “I ruined it, I’m sorry”

Peter grabs Deadpool’s wrists and pulls his hands down. Deadpool leans into the touch, savors it as if nobody has touched him in decades and Peter slips his fingers around Deadpool’s.

“But I do like you,” he says, and before Deadpool can protest or interject with something self-deprecating he continues, “Sure, you know just how to push my buttons and sometimes I roll my eyes when you speak but I like you. I like how excited you get every time we go swinging or your obscure references to things I thought I was the only one who liked. I think you’re… I think you’re funny, no I’m not repeating myself. Even after the shittiest days, you’re still cheerful. You’re a pain in the ass, but you’re my pain in the ass”

“Don’t lie to me, please” Deadpool’s breath shudders, “don’t say this just to leave me, because I know what I look like and-”

“Your scars shouldn’t be a deciding factor in whether you are deserving of love or not”

Peter pulls him into a hug and quenches the desire to strangle anybody who insisted otherwise.

Deadpool’s tears are hot on his shoulder.

“Wade” he sniffles, “It’s Wade Wilson”

Peter feels as though this is a moment where he once again has lost the thread but then it clicks.

“I like you, Wade”

“I like you too, Peter”

“Thanks” Peter is never good in these situations.

“You know” Wade lifts his head slightly and their eyes meet, his eyes are dry but still red, “I could be a pain in the ass in more ways than one”

Peter flushes. “I didn’t mean it like that, it was just a bad comparison. Forget that part”

Wade gives him a long look. A look that says he will never forget it.

“By that I mean my cock can be a pain in your ass, or my tongue if you pre-”

Peter pulls back to shoot a web at his mouth.

“Don’t ruin the moment”


End file.
